


If anyone knows

by softgrungeprophet



Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Texting, Excessive Drinking, Friendship/Love, Gatecrashing, Guilt, House Party, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, References to Canon, Self-Destruction, serious conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29259570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softgrungeprophet/pseuds/softgrungeprophet
Summary: Johnny Storm, looking to feel a little better about life, gatecrashes a gay frat party and gets absolutely trashed.Luckily, he has people who care about him.
Relationships: Johnny Storm/Others, Johnny Storm/Wyatt Wingfoot
Kudos: 4





	If anyone knows

Johnny adjusted his diamond earrings, eyeing his reflection in the mirror. Smooth-faced, exfoliated, glowing with a certain inner heat that pinked his cheeks and sparkled in his eyes.

Maybe the gold phoenix was too loud of a shirt pattern, but then again…

They would all look at him, anyway. Why not give them something to stare about before they realized they were going to stare in the first place? Be loud and rude and beautiful to the point no one would look away.

After all, what was the point of crashing a party if not for attention (and free food)?

"Hey," Johnny leaned out of the bathroom, supporting himself on the doorframe as he addressed Wyatt. "You coming with, Mr. College Graduate?"

Wyatt raised his eyebrows, looking up from his book. "Are you kidding me?" He smiled, bemused, fingers nestled between well-worn pages. "I've pulled three all-nighters this week." His gaze seemed unfocused, and maybe that was the exhaustion, or maybe Johnny imagined the way it lingered. "My plan is to finish this chapter of my book—" He held the book up. _Moby Dick_. "—Eat dinner, and go to bed at nine."

"Suit yourself." Johnny huffed, adjusting his pants—a tasteful light green pressed to be as sharp as possible, a structured counterpoint to the silken luxury of his shirt and exposed collarbone. He turned his back to Wyatt, searching for the final item to pull his outfit together. "Square."

He could hear Wyatt's softly breathed laugh from behind him as he rifled through his closet; a pleasantly quiet sound that warmed Johnny's chest.

Ah. There.

Neon green transparent PVC of just the shade to match his pants, with a heavy, chromed O-ring dangling from the hardware on the front. Johnny fastened the collar around his neck—distilled fashion, no practical use—and gave a quick muss to his hair. The art of casual dishevelment, very important.

"I'll be back, uh…" Johnny hesitated as he reached for his shoes—the white Louis Vuitton driving loafers. "At some point." He shot a finger at Wyatt, and a wink, and carried his lambskin Lomboks out of the room with him.

Wyatt's, "I'll be here" followed him out of their shared bedroom and into the hallways of the Baxter Building, fading as Johnny hopped one-footed to get one shoe on, and then the other.

First stop, keep it simple. A bar. No crashing, just photo ID confirming his eligibility to imbibe whatever he liked, and to quell every, _"Hey, aren't you that Jimmy Storm guy?"_

As if.

The starter bar in question tonight was low-key but welcoming, in close proximity to ESU, and as the sun set on dinner time, Johnny slunk his way to the counter in-between a loud pair of friends and a stoic, handsome sort of guy who ignored him. The bartender, luckily, did not.

"I'll have your most tropical drink, thanks." Johnny smiled as charmingly as he knew how.

Two hours of chatting and one Blue Hawaii, one Mai Tai, a Golden Dream, a Bikini Martini and one Kir Royale later (perhaps a few too many), Johnny strode somewhat unsteadily out of the bar arm-in-arm with his chosen target—a strapping young man close to his own age, and more importantly a member of Empire State's own _Alpha Mu Alpha_ , premier gay fraternity, willing to sneak him into the graduation party as a plus-one in exchange for autographing his t-shirt.

And this was how Johnny would crash his way into all the free food, alcohol, and dance partners he could ever desire, with the beautiful secrecy of fraternal oaths as a fun bonus.

Though that very same secrecy could very well get him kicked out before he even got in.

"I'm never gonna be able to wash this shirt again, am I?" His ticket in, Jody or Bradley or something, plucked at his collar as they made their way down Greek Row, finally stopping in front of a well-kept old house of several stories, proudly emblazoned with "AMA" and a rainbow of streamers, balloons and other decorations. A large sign reading " _Congradulations!_ " hung from the front porch and music thudded out of the open windows, as a small handful of students milled around in the front yard, mostly gathered around a kiddie pool filled with ice and cans of soda—ranging from Diet Coke to Orange Crush, Sprite to A&W.

"What should I do? Hang it on the wall?"

Oh, right, conversations normally had two sides.

"Oh, I dunno," Johnny leaned on Brody. "You should sleep in it, probably…" He smiled, his tongue caught between his teeth a moment. "Pretend I'm with you."

Barry tightened his arm around Johnny's waist. Johnny smiled none-too-genuinely and nodded toward the pool of soda. "Go see if there's any Dr. Pepper."

He knew there wouldn't be, and when his stranger separated from him, Johnny wasted no time in slipping away, sauntering into the house the second the boy's back was turned to him.

The music was louder inside, and Johnny made a beeline for the back of the room where a bedecked table displayed a punch bowl full of what looked like sparkling lemonade, slices of citrus packed in with the ice and an empty bottle each of vodka and Sprite tucked away in the shadows underneath the table.

Johnny immediately served himself a cup of vodka lemonade, and grabbed a paper plate to pile high with chips, pigs in a blanket, and nacho cheese sauce. He stopped a moment to add a scoop of ice cream from an already-melting tub to his precariously full cup, sipping the tension off the top along with the foam until the risk of spilling subsided.

For the moment, he bided his time, nestled alone into a shadowy corner to eat and drink and watch.

One plate of food, two plates… Well-fed and now filling his cup with the juices of vodka-soaked fruit from the frat kitchen—all liquefied watermelon, macerated berries, and the strong smell of booze, cut with ginger ale and ice.

He found himself in that strange state he sometimes got into—drunkenness that he could have easily burned off and yet, at the same time, suppressed his ability to do just that. Where his powers were this fuzzy distant thing, still there, still present, warming him to fever-hot temperatures and flushing his face, but depressed into a state of near-threatlessness by the alcohol in his system.

Almost soothing, without the panic of powerlessness. A balm of self-medication and self-destruction, indulging in his vices, almost guaranteed to wind up photographed in such a lush state by strangers with their phones already out—amateur paparazzi seeking to be a part of celebrity-dom just for one snapshot in time… and Johnny having drunk himself into soft blurriness far too early in the night.

Johnny swayed between two men he didn't know the names of, his drink cold in one hand, and a stranger's hipbone warm under the other. The cold of ice down his throat refreshed in the way only ice-cold drinks can, even for a man who felt temperature more like a memory than a sensation anymore.

He fit tight between the upperclassman, recent graduates (just that day) who he wouldn't remember the faces of come morning—the intimacy of mystery, the closest sort of being. Chest-to-chest, back-to-back with strangers, a mouth on his neck and no expectations or responsibilities of the kind that haunted him in his day-to-day life.

No consequences, no fear; just body heat and other people's sweat and heartbeats and soft-skinned palms. The one behind him had gotten a couple fingers up under the PVC of his collar, pressing into the tender skin of Johnny's throat. Another hand at his waist. Another at his wrist as the other man stole a sip from his solo cup.

"Don't drink it all!" Johnny wasn't mad, even though he had to shout to be heard about the music.

He got a smile, all straight white teeth. A brief reminder that Johnny himself had never had braces—would never, unless he wanted to be made fun of, wearing some contraption Reed had modified to resist Johnny's immolation. One of many things he would never have.

The thought flitted away as his stranger kissed him, sweet from fruit juice.

He lost track of time, space, everything…

Hours.

Johnny stumbled—almost fell down the stairs, groping his way along the wall. Everything wobbled like he was onboard a ship at sea, or maybe that was him swaying side to side trying to find his footing. His $800 shirt from Saks was missing, lost somewhere in the Alpha Mu Alpha house. He steadied himself on the side of a couch, doubled over the arm almost entirely, face half-buried in someone's coat.

Maybe… just maybe… he had imbibed a little too recklessly.

But he was conscious, and he still had his pants, and that was important. Somehow.

He stopped at the table to grab a handful of cheese puffs, content to just stand there half-upright, munching away until he remembered that he was trying to leave.

He couldn't focus his eyes well enough to read the clock, but it was light outside the windows—mostly from the streetlights, which danced before his eyes as he made it to the lawn. The kiddie pool ice had melted, and the pool itself been overturned at some point, a garbage bin full of empty cans nearby. The grass sloshed with the meltwater under his feet, squelching unpleasantly.

The sky was a strange stony color, but still dark after all, the moon long since lowered out of view behind the buildings.

Johnny fumbled for his razor-thin smartphone, typing something out and then sliding it back into his pocket, distracted by a cat across the street preening itself on the curb.

"Here, kitty, kitty…" Johnny stumbled over—the cat perked up, and trotted away.

Johnny slouched to sit on the sidewalk with a pout, practically horizontal, with little bits of gravel digging into his palms—bright spots of discomfort anchoring him to reality.

He wanted to lay down, but not here. He had to go home to lie down. Go to his nice, comfy bed. Even asbestos-treated sheets were more comfortable than asphalt and concrete.

Carefully, he pushed himself upright and walked a few unsteady feet, the night breeze delicately caressing his bare skin and the red marks just beginning to bloom across his chest and stomach. He vaguely recalled being bent half-backwards in someone's arms to get those.

His phone hummed—he looked at it, processed nothing, and put it away again after sending back a dizzy emoji before making his way to the next road.

A swift reply, and he finally focused long enough to—still not answer. Wyatt's response was a big word Johnny couldn't remember the meaning of and he switched to text his sister, because according to Wyatt, she was worried, and he didn't want her to worry.

A few minutes passed as he stumbled away from Greek Row and toward… somewhere. And she only said " _We'll talk later._ "

Johnny sighed and listed against a conveniently-located fire hydrant, sliding down to sit beside it. He didn't want his sister to be _mad_ at him. He texted only her name, plaintive as could be in such a toneless format. And as he moved to text Wyatt about the cat he had seen earlier, he wondered what might have been posted online—Wyatt's words: _plastered on twitter_. So he asked.

Quick reply: " _Creepshots._ "

So the usual. Johnny rested his chin on the fire hydrant. It was uncomfortable, but cold, in that distant way. He liked that.

" _And you posted a selfie._ "

Uh-oh. Johnny didn't remember that. He swiped clumsily through his phone until he found Twitter, more through luck than intent, and located the aforementioned selfie. Inundated with notifications but that was nothing new—he giggled to himself at the angling of the selfie, which barely showed his face, and mostly showed someone's little dog sniffing the camera. Another beside it was just a dark mass with a sliver of light shining through, and Johnny couldn't figure out what that was.

He vaguely remembered someone putting their hand out to block his phone, and hadn't touched it the rest of the night.

Frat rules, or something…

Johnny looked back at his conversation with Sue (if it could really be called one), and frowned. No reply, just empty silence. She was angry, probably. But Wyatt had asked if Johnny wanted him to come get him, so that was something at least. Even if Johnny hadn't actually responded in any useful way.

He raised his head and looked around.

He didn't recognize this area—to be fair, everything seemed unfamiliar to him in this state, even his own hands, and he couldn't tell whether to chalk that up to alcohol, his powers, or an interaction between the two. Maybe just exhaustion.

His eyes prickled with heat, and he rubbed at them.

 _Stupid_ …

His eyes blurred, and he caved in to the desire for someone to come find him—

Inelegant pleading via abbreviation and emoji.

"pls big buddy 😢"

Finally, Wyatt responded. "Stay put," he said, as if Johnny would have made it more than a few blocks before either getting hit by a car or stumbling into someone's yard or something. With his luck, he'd wind up mugged and robbed of his pants in an alley, or something. Wouldn't be the first time, wouldn't be the last.

Johnny wrapped his arms around the fire hydrant with a shaky breath.

This always happened.

He always got sad.

Brief carelessness, brief freedom from responsibility, and then the crushing depths. And he kept doing it, over and over, too dumb and worthless to work his way out.

Across the street, a raccoon sat fiddling with something it had probably grabbed out of a dumpster. Johnny stared at it through his blurry, damp tears, and sighed.

It was late enough, or early enough, that a few birds had begun to sing, though the sun wasn't quite up to rising yet. Another hour, maybe. Johnny, despite being an early riser himself, could relate. All he wanted right now was to lay down on something soft and sleep until everything was less… less, in general.

Despite the discomfort of the sidewalk and the fire hydrant, he dozed, head lolling against painted cast iron.

The purr of an engine roused him, some thirty minutes later—he lifted his head to frown at the familiar sight of one of his very own projects, a blue and white minivan he'd built after Valeria was born—capable of flight, transformation, and everything else a Fantasticar required. The door opened on the other side, and strong arms found him—

"Hiii…" Johnny mumbled against Wyatt's arm, not entirely in control of his limbs.

"Oh, wow." Wyatt lifted him up as if he weighed nothing, and Johnny just caught sight of him wrinkling his nose as if assaulted by a foul smell. "How much did you drink?"

Johnny waved his hand. "Oh, you know…"

He was jostled into the van, buckled securely in the seat behind the driver's, as Wyatt sighed, "I don't, Johnny."

There was this brief moment of silence, as Wyatt looked down at him, gently inscrutable—he rested his hand on Johnny's head, then, a briefly soft-hearted muss of his hair before sliding the side of the van shut and climbing in behind the wheel.

Johnny made a face at Wyatt in the rearview mirror, and caught the tiniest fond quirk in his expression, quickly dissolving as he focused on starting the van and getting out of whatever neighborhood this was.

By the time the Baxter Building came into view, the sky had begun to lighten, people had begun to fill the streets on their way to early morning shifts, and Johnny felt a bone-deep tiredness weigh him down in his seat. The radio was off, but Wyatt hummed to himself softly—adult standards, the same kind of boring music Peter listened to on account of being raised by old people.

"You're… old." Johnny mumbled to himself. "Old… foxy grandpa."

Wyatt stopped humming to spare Johnny a bemused glance as he pulled into the Baxter Building's garage. "Foxy grandpa?"

Johnny nodded emphatically. "'cept—" He thought for a moment. "'cept you know how to code shit…"

Wyatt let out a quiet huff of laughter as he cut the engine. "I _do_ know how to code shit." He slid out of the driver's seat and in a moment was at Johnny's side again, murmuring "C'mon now," as he helped him out of his seatbelt and onto his feet. Johnny wobbled, and tightened his hand in Wyatt's shirt.

Carefully, Wyatt looped an arm around Johnny's back to keep him steady, enveloping Johnny in a cloud of familiar human warmth and leather-heavy cologne. Sweat and soap and amber.

Johnny leaned into him with a sigh.

He woke sometime later, light streaming through the blinds, laid out carefully on his side on top of his covers. His shoes had been removed at some point, and his socks, but he still wore his green pants. His neck was bare, too, and as he leaned up on one elbow he caught sight of that neon green collar on the bedside table.

Wyatt sat in his chair—chin tucked against his chest, asleep with an open book in his lap. He snored quietly, and didn't stir even when—after righting himself unsteadily—Johnny tripped over his own shoes.

Johnny hissed a quiet curse under his breath and in a quick shiver of intense heat, let fire burn through his veins and briefly rearrange his cellular structure before settling back into his skin. All internal, leaving his pants unharmed and not a hair out of place.

A brief surge of nausea beset him—but then he was fine. Sober, and upright, and shirtless and—

"Oh _no_ …" Johnny snatched his shoes from where he'd tripped over them. White calfskin… stained with mud, still damp and waterlogged from when he had drunkenly stumbled through the puddles in the frat house's front lawn. "Why??" He could have kicked himself. 

He sighed and slumped into the nearest chair—at his own pristine desk, which he rarely used. He dropped his shoe to the floor and let himself spin a full circle, craning his head back to stare up at the ceiling.

Sue would be angry.

Johnny couldn't blame her. And he didn't want to know what had made it to social media—hazy as his memories were, he could guess, and he imagined it wouldn't be pretty. He didn't want to see them—creepshots, as Wyatt had described them—but eventually he'd have to face it, he supposed.

Or he could just delete all the apps from his phone and pretend nothing had happened. Hope everyone moved on.

Wyatt stirred quietly in his sleep, and Johnny's attention shifted to him. The lines in his face all smoothed out, soft and open. Guilt wormed its way into Johnny's gut, knowing how tired Wyatt must have been—after sleeping so little in his final week of higher education; working so hard to make his family proud.

And here Johnny had caused everyone so much trouble, made Wyatt drive to get him at half past four in the morning. So drunk Wyatt had tried to stay up watching him, probably worried half to death. Johnny could imagine Wyatt reassuring Sue that he'd keep an eye on her stupid little brother—or maybe that was a memory, half-formed through the haze of intoxication. Quiet voices, consternation, concern, all mixing together.

Johnny leaned forward with his face in his hands, and his elbows on his knees.

He really was a selfish idiot.

He took a deep breath, and glanced at the clock.

Seven on the dot, the sun steady through the curtains and birds probably singing outside—but this high up, overlooking the city, there weren't exactly a lot of sweet-singing songbirds. Johnny pushed himself to his feet and stripped down to bare skin before grabbing some clean clothes—simple, comfortable, just sweatpants and a shirt with Ben's big orange mug emblazoned across it. He'd gotten it as a joke, but somehow it had wound up a pajama staple.

Careful not to disturb Wyatt, Johnny padded barefoot out of their room and down the hall.

It being a Saturday, everyone was still asleep, thankfully. Well. Not everyone—Reed's arm was in the kitchen, and the rest of him stretched into another room.

Johnny rolled his eyes. "Morning, old man."

Reed's spaghettified limb twitched, and his head emerged to join his arm with an owlish expression. "Oh," He blinked. "Good morning, Johnny. I'm glad to see you're safe."

Johnny wrinkled his nose. "As houses." He leaned into the fridge, and when Reed's hand snaked around the door, he handed him the bottled protein shake he sought. "Is she mad?"

No need to specify who.

Reed hummed, and when Johnny glanced over his shoulder, he found the rest of his body had finally decided to join him in the doorway. As Reed unscrewed the cap from his shake he said, "She's disappointed."

"Oh, great." Johnny set the carton of eggs down a little too hard and winced. All intact, though. "That's fine." He dug a fist into his eye until he saw stars, and sighed.

For a moment, Reed said nothing, occupied with his liquid breakfast—but then he cleared his throat and added, "I expect you'll be the hot topic of the day online."

Johnny groaned, letting himself stare heavenward with an egg in one hand and a frying pan in the other. "Don't remind me." He set the pan on the stovetop and cracked the egg into a dish. "I'm trying to atone. I don't want to think about it."

Reed snorted. "I believe," He said. "That defeats the purpose of atonement."

Johnny scoffed as he cracked another egg. "Get me the sourdough."

Reed obliged.

As Johnny cooked, he felt more alive, and a little less awful with every slice of French toast that he flipped. Naturally, Reed was already there, and he stuck around as the children emerged first—lured out by the smell of frying cinnamon and eggs. Ben followed soon after, grumbling about it being too early but eager as anyone else to eat.

Neither Sue nor Wyatt made an appearance.

Not surprising, with how late he'd kept them up.

Johnny set aside two plates, keeping them warm with his powers as the rest of the family ate. He covered Sue's with fresh fruit, and Wyatt's with marmalade, and topped them both with a generous mountain of whipped cream, before taking each plate in-hand and making his exit.

Wyatt first—Johnny cleared his throat as he entered their shared room and said, brightly, "Good morning! I made you breakfast!"

Wyatt frowned unconsciously before stirring with a sharp breath. He blinked awake, bleary and confused as Johnny pushed the plate into his hand.

"Wh—?"

Johnny was out of the room before he could say a thing.

"Suuuue~" Johnny stopped outside of the room she shared with Reed. "Dearest sister who I adore with all my heart?"

The door whirred open almost immediately, and Sue Storm raised one smooth eyebrow.

"Oh." Johnny blinked. "I made breakfast."

She narrowed her eyes at him, but glanced at the plate in his hand. She shook her head—and smiled, just a little bit, posture softening. "Fresh peaches?"

Johnny shrugged. "You know how much I love you."

"…" Sue sighed, and took the plate from him. "I do." She took the fork he offered her, brandished from the pocket of his glitteriest apron, and said, "I worry about you, is all."

He sighed too, and nodded. "Yeah."

Neither of them said anything else, a sort of awkward curtain of silence falling between them. Sue chewed on her lip, but she nodded into her room, and retreated from the open door, obviously inviting Johnny in.

He steeled himself, and followed her to the little table that separated this part of her and Reed's suite from the entrance. A little breakfast nook, of sorts, though they usually ate with the rest of the family. She sat, and Johnny did as well, folding his hands in his lap and looking down at the table with his breath half-held.

For a while, it was just silent. Sue eating, and Johnny sitting. Fidgeting.

Finally, "Mm…" Sue tapped her finger on her fork. "This is good."

Johnny nodded. "Mm-hm."

"…Last night, on the other hand." She looked at him, sharp and calculating, but not unaffectionate. "Was not good."

He nodded again.

Sue took a deep breath and let it out. "I'm not mad, Johnny."

"Just disappointed. Reed said." He smiled, crooked and toothy. Sue rolled her eyes, but she almost laughed. Johnny frowned. "Sorry."

She shook her head and set her fork down. "I know. I know you're sorry." She rested her forehead against her hand a moment, and closed her eyes. Again, just a moment. "I don't want you to do something you'll regret, Johnny."

Johnny spread his hands and said, with a certain resigned air, "Too late for that."

She made a face as if to concede. He spoke the truth, after all, and Sue knew it.

"Still." She rested a hand lightly against the side of her face, as she often did when worried or deep in thought. "I don't want you to get hurt."

Again… too late. Johnny grimaced.

"Johnny, I mean it."

He sighed. "I know." He recalled the nebulous activities of the night before, cobwebs of memories blacked out by intoxication and loud music. Hands and camera phones and vodka lemonade, blooming hickeys hidden under his shirt, singing off-key under his breath pressed between strangers. "I didn't mean… I just wanted to have fun."

"Fun." Sue nodded. "You're almost twenty-two. I know that's still young, but—"

"I know—I know—" Johnny pressed his face into his hands. "I'm irresponsible, and reckless, and foolish and shallow—"

Sue stopped him. "You're young."

" _You_ weren't like this when _you_ were my age." Johnny stared at her, miserable, forehead tight with his frown. " _You_ were taking care of me. You're always taking care of me."

Sue pursed her lips, and said nothing.

Johnny looked down at his hands, twisted together in his lap. He didn't know what to say, or how to explain why he did what he did. That it wasn't just partying for the sake of partying; that he wasn't some empty-headed playboy out for cheap thrills. He wasn't trying to disappoint the woman who raised her, it just kept happening anyway. But who would believe that? Even _he_ didn't always believe it. But normally, he had some control, and this…

"I—" He bit the inside of his cheek. "I just, I—" The words stuck and he stuttered, and that only served to make him more frustrated. All he could surrender was another apology, stammered, "I-I'm sorry—"

He felt like an ashamed child. Swiped at his eyes, and sniffed.

Sue sighed.

She stood, and came over to his side, gently reaching out to pull him to his feet—and into her arms. "Those frat boys are lucky I don't know where they live. I'd break their dirty rich paws."

Johnny laughed wetly against her hair. "Me too." His voice wobbled embarrassingly, and he took a steadying breath. The familiar smell of his sister's shampoo steadied him. "…Which frat boys?"

He could practically hear her roll her eyes as she said, simply, "Ugh, _Johnny_."

Johnny hugged her closer, and she gave him a tight squeeze before letting him go.

"Okay." Sue nodded toward the door. "Talk over. Get outta here, and don't let me catch you trending again for at _least_ another six months. _Especially_ not with your shirt off."

"I swear—" Johnny backed toward the door, hands up to placate her. "I won't. I promise."

She shooed him off.

Out in the hallway, Johnny let out a sigh. He stopped to wipe his eyes on the hem of his shirt and leaned against the wall for a second to gather himself. Pull all the little frazzled edges together into one neat person-shaped package and pretend to the world that everything was fine. Just like every other day of his life.

Usually that wasn't coupled with amateur paparazzi photos of him making out with a bunch of dudes he didn't know the names of, too drunk to even remember their faces.

He retreated quietly back to his and Wyatt's room—and almost bumped into Wyatt himself in the doorway, empty plate in hand.

"Oh, I can take that for you—" Johnny stumbled back and gestured at Wyatt's plate.

Wyatt smiled and shook his head. "I'll do it myself."

They moved around each other, and Wyatt's hand brushed Johnny on his way past. Warm, and soft.

Johnny bit his lip. Watched Wyatt disappear down the hallway with a belated, "…Okay."

What an idiot. Johnny shook his head and slipped through the door.

His phone sat on the bedside table, next to his choker-collar.

His mentions had exploded overnight—again, not unusual, and he had notifications turned off completely for most social media apps, except for private accounts he only shared with his family and closest friends. Luckily Peter could barely tell a tweet from his own ass, or Johnny probably would have strangled himself long ago.

Nonetheless, Dorrie had DM'd him a simple a "WTF Johnny."

Johnny loved Dorrie, despite how rocky their relationship had been, but he really could have done without her judgment on top of everything else.

Whatever.

He scrolled a little, trepidation chilling his insides a little. Basic stuff, from earlier the night before. A dumb little public conversation he'd had with Jen about whether or not she could beat Spider-Man in a fight. (Consensus unreached despite a certain _no1spideyfan_ 's insistence that Spider-Man could best anyone.) And…

"Oh." Johnny stopped with his thumb on a photo of himself, shirtless, smashed between two dudes. Very visibly trashed, making out with a third guy. Not a single one of them familiar. He scrolled a little more. A lot of pejoratives, a lot of accusations. A few people coming to his defense. A few _memes_. For God's sake—"I think I'm gonna throw myself out a window."

"I'd prefer it if you didn't, just between friends."

Johnny jumped, and clutched his phone to his chest. " _Jesus_ , Wyatt—" He steadied himself. "Don't sneak up on me like that."

Wyatt made a face. "Sorry." He slipped past Johnny, to grab the book he'd been reading from his desk. "Why are you going to jump out of a window?"

"Debauchery." Johnny sighed and threw himself onto his bed with all the drama he could muster, letting his phone fall beside him. "Hey, can I ask an invasive question?"

Silence a moment. "Uhhh…" Wyatt's bed creaked as he sat, too. "Sure?"

Johnny lay still a moment, with his arm thrown across his face. Then, haltingly, he asked, "How… How old were you when you lost your virginity?"

With a huff, Wyatt said, "Not applicable."

"What—" Johnny sat up. " _Excuse_ me? _What?_ A hunk like you?"

Wyatt spread his hands, a little sheepish. "What can I say?" His face was just a little pink. Just a hint of embarrassment. "I spend significantly more time reading about ancient civilizations than I spend dating."

Johnny scoffed. "Unbelievable."

"I don't see the big deal." Wyatt finally set the book aside, having dog-eared the page. He looked… not peeved, exactly, but a little ticked. "Maybe I'm just not interested."

"I—" Johnny nodded. "You're right. Sorry, I just—" He let out a breath, and kicked his feet out, wiggling his bare toes as he considered what to say. His demeanor shifted, a little more serious, as he let his feet down to touch the cold tile floor. "When I was sixteen, I… There was this guy. This older guy." He hesitated. "Like… almost old enough to be my dad, older."

Wyatt frowned, but focused on Johnny and his words.

"I was, you know, I was young and dumb and frustrated with everything. And this guy, Zante, he had me convinced my family was taking advantage of me. In retrospect, it's stupid—they're my _family_ —but, I- I don't know." Johnny turned his hands over in his lap, looking down at his reddened fingers. "He got me to buy into this idea, this notion that Reed and everyone else was just holding me back, and that he—this _stranger_ —would treat me right. It was grooming, obviously, but I didn't know any better at the time—"

Johnny glanced up, to gauge Wyatt's expression. A deep frown, his fingers laced under his chin. Their eyes met and Johnny faltered.

"I—" He looked down, at his hands twisting in his lap. "I don't have very good coping mechanisms, do I?" He almost laughed. "He let me design a costume, and I was so naïve. I let him—" He stopped himself. "You know."

Wyatt said nothing more than a very quiet, "Johnny…"

"He shot me!" Johnny clapped his hands to his face. "When I stopped being useful, he shot me. I still have a scar." He reached over to squeeze his arm, half hugging himself, to feel the marred skin there. Faded, but still present, still lingering. "I wasn't flamed on. It broke the bone and everything."

Quieter, Johnny continued, "I skulked around in the closet for years 'cause I felt so ashamed." He sighed. "Now it's all over Twitter, and I just… I still feel so ashamed."

He let his words dwindle out into silence.

Neither of them spoke, at first.

After a moment, Wyatt stood, only to lower himself to reach for Johnny, to pull him into his arms. Johnny let Wyatt embrace him, the two of them sliding halfway off his bed. Slowly, slowly, Johnny relaxed into his touch, until they both sat on the floor. Wyatt with his arms around Johnny so tight it almost hurt, Johnny with his face buried in Wyatt's neck.

He breathed deep. Again, cologne. Leather and musk, but faded to the faintest remnant. Stale and human. Not like Johnny's kerosene smoke; his metallic, sweatless ozone stench.

Johnny wished he could melt into Wyatt. Just lose himself, and become a part of someone else.

"Sorry…" Johnny mumbled against Wyatt's neck.

Wyatt breathed under him, steady like a rock. But finally, he loosened his hold on Johnny, until the two of them sort of leaned against each other in a half-formed embrace, wrapped around one another. Skin and fabric and warmth. Johnny shifted a little, his nose brushing against Wyatt's ear. Wyatt's palm firm against his hip.

Johnny pressed a light kiss—butterfly-light, feather-light—to the edge of Wyatt's jaw.

He could hear the way Wyatt's breath caught in surprise.

So he did it again, closer to his chin. And again, until he found Wyatt's mouth, soft and still a little sweet from breakfast.

Wyatt was very still at first, but he warmed to Johnny's kisses—finally kissed back, almost shy, like he didn't quite know what to do. And Johnny realized he probably didn't, for all his worldliness and experience.

"Is this…" Johnny pulled back just a hair. "Your first kiss?"

"Shh." Wyatt brushed his nose against Johnny's. "Don't ruin the moment." His eyes crinkled at the corners with his smile.

Johnny laughed under his breath. "I'm not—I swear." He snuck another kiss. "The moment is intact."

Luckily, Wyatt was quick on the uptake—always had been, since they'd met—and the two of them found a gentle pace that suited Johnny just fine. And Wyatt too, from what he could tell.

The rest of the world could wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Johnny's party outfit was loooosely inspired by the orange suit he wears to Wyatt's graduation in Fantastic Four #138, mostly in color scheme.  
> It's an [$800 Zimmerman shirt](https://www.saksfifthavenue.com/product/zimmermann-brightside-placement-silk-shirt-0400012189445.html), some snazzy green pants, [a PVC collar](https://www.apatico.net/products/neon-oh-choker-collar-pink-green-pvc-uv-blacklight-clear-plastic-clubkids-party-rave-fashion), and a pair of [Louis Vuitton white Lombok driving shoes](https://www.luxurybags.pl/shoes/66231-louis-vuitton-lombok-calfskin-driving-loafers-white-36) and it looks a little something like this:  
> 
> 
> This ended up getting sort of rambling and out of hand but... it is what it is! (gay)  
> And I know it's not entirely clear what Johnny got up to at the party and what some of the pictures are of but that was kinda on purpose. I will say it probably involved blowjobs at some point but obviously photos like that would not be allowed on Twitter...  
> I chose a frat at ESU cause I figured Johnny going to a school other than the one he and Wyatt went to made sense. Crashing some other school's frat party.  
> Alpha Mu Alpha is hypothetically short for "agape meta adelphous" which may or may not be correct (but since it's a fictional frat it doesn't even need to be correct cause there are irl frats with grammar and spelling errors in their phrases) Anyway it's a gay frat for lgbt and trans men but welcomes allies and progressive men who uphold their ideals of love between brethren (romantic and platonic alike), furthering equality among men, standing against homophobia, transphobia, etc. But they still party like a frat house full of young rich men. 
> 
> Anyway this is me going "how can I take the drunken playboy persona and twist it to be not quite what it seems, reflecting johnny's insecurities and the ways he uses partying as a form of self-harm whether intentional or not." Essentially. As well as like, the celebrity in the closet who has illicit gay affairs, kind of thing…
> 
> Setting is mostly similar to canon but wyatt lives in the baxter building thru college (not just after) cause metro college is supposedly in manhattan so it just makes sense. Set on the night of his graduation from metro, long before he meets jen obviously. So wyatt is Inexperienced In Love aside from a schoolboy crush or two when he was younger.  
> As far as johnny the idea I guess is that he's Not Out in the same way that many celebrities aren't out but are still speculated widely about. Obviously getting photographed making out with a bunch of dudes at a gay frat party sort of… forces the issue.  
> 
> 
> also this is in a roundabout way traincat's fault for reminding me of this panel in the context of its gay author's little note:  
>   
> "if anyone knows from drunk fratboys, it's johnny storm," indeed
> 
> oh and re: Zante and Johnny losing his virginity at 16 or 17, that's essentially me having once read Strange Tales #106 and now saying "what if i made this more depressing" by the vague implication that Zante sexually groomed an underaged Johnny along with the regular criminal grooming. It doesn't seem like that far of a leap and it was something I'd been thinking about recently. Obviously I didn't go too deeply into it but... it seemed to fit in this fic so there it is.


End file.
